When morning breaks over saffron hills,
As quiet as snow, as soft as stills,
The air is pure, a breath anew,
The sun-drenched fields bathe in dew.
At Saffron Cottage, with gentle hands,
Our ancestors rise, they walk this land,
Ghosts of past toil, now silent and wise,
Their shadows stretch beneath dawn’s skies.
In every petal’s shy delight,
A story unfurls in the morning light,
With whispers sewn in violet hues,
Old dreams bloom beneath mountain views.
Here Kong Posh stands, a hallowed ground,
Where crimson tides and faith are bound.
The fields pulse red, a sacred fire,
The breath of land, a heart’s desire.
Each flower plucked, with careful grace,
Carries heritage, earth’s embrace.
In nimble fingers, stories stay,
Of hands that worked at break of day.
Each stigma pulled with timeless skill,
A gift, a promise, an ancient will.
In every thread, in every strand,
The spirit of saffron, blessed by hand.
For here in fields of amber light,
Generations merge with the morning bright.
From flower to flame, the harvest born,
With saffron dreams that greet the morn.